


Soliloquy

by spilledinkwitch



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Drama, Gen, Not Beta Read, POV Third Person, Probably not historically-accurate, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-27 23:45:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15695826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spilledinkwitch/pseuds/spilledinkwitch
Summary: “Nos vivere et mori solum,” she said, her back still facing him. “We live and die alone.”Marie-Anne Corday, known to history as Charlotte Corday, is an Assassin who uses the Creed to her own ends. Arno Dorian, her brother-in-arms, suspects her of vigilantism and confronts her.





	Soliloquy

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one-shot I wrote in 2014, before Assassin’s Creed: Unity was even released. At the time, I wanted to challenge myself a bit; my goal was to see if I could come up with a story not only set in this period of history, but one that could also easily fit into the AC universe/mythos. I decided I would write in the POV of Charlotte Corday—you _may_ have heard of her. ;)
> 
> This was also written before Charlotte was “added” as an official character in the series. Unfortunately, I thought Ubisoft’s portrayal was … lacking. In my fic, she has more development and interaction with our main Assassin, Arno Dorian. Speaking of Arno—there is no full-blown romance involved, aside from an implied Arno/Élise. That being said, this story will not be historically accurate (or perfectly in-line with the game, obviously) so expect a lot of inconsistencies. There’s also a twist at the end, as well as some references to AC: Rogue and Embers. I do have to mention that I’m not fluent in French or Latin, so if you see any mistakes, feel free to correct me.
> 
> I sometimes use numbered annotations in my written pieces; this is one of those times. See the end of the fic for my explanatory notes, or simply ignore them altogether; it shouldn’t take away from the story if you choose to skip them.

* * *

 “Vanity made the revolution; liberty was only a pretext.”

—Napoléon Bonaparte

* * *

 

_L’AMI DU PEUPLE_ 1, the headline said.

The young woman’s lips pressed together into a thin line, her gray eyes narrowing in contempt. _Friend of the People_ , she thought, crinkling the paper into a ball. _Such lies._ Tossing it over her shoulder, she proceeded further down the winding alley. Once a beautiful city, Paris had been consumed by violence and fear, the streets paved with the blood of Her people. Simply put, it was dangerous for a noblewoman to wander about unattended.

But Charlotte Corday was no ordinary noblewoman.

The clacking of shoes upon cobblestone echoed behind her. Whoever it was, they hadn’t tried to hide their presence—or their intent. Charlotte had felt the man’s eyes on her the moment she’d taken to the streets, and had been aware of his imprecise, clumsy gait ever since. Why he so clearly pronounced her as his target, she could only suspect. But once she ceased her steps, she knew she would find out.

“The streets, they are not safe,” the man said.

She could almost hear the smirk that pulled at his lips. Letting out an even breath, she listened for his movement and replied, “I am well aware, _monsieur_. You need not be concerned about me.”

He inched closer, close enough that she smelled the lingering scent of alcohol on his breath, to which she wrinkled her nose at. “Please allow me to escort you, _mademoiselle_.”

“That won’t be necessary.” She flicked her wrist; her hidden blade extended, unbeknownst to the man behind her.

“You will be much safer with someone in tow,” he coaxed, snaking an arm underneath hers and around her bodice, “particularly a big, _strong_ man.”

Of course, she knew he would try to drag her off and have his way with her; Charlotte had no intention of allowing herself to be sullied by this repulsive, sorry excuse of a man and be left to die of shame. He stunk of deceit and fabricated charm—and she would end his life, for the good of the women of Paris. _No_ , she thought, _for_ all _of France_.

“A big, _strong_ man,” she echoed, her voice laced with feigned sweetness.

He leaned closer, his vile breath tickling her ear. “So, will you come wi—”

In one swift action, her stalker’s words had been reduced to a nonsensical burble, his hands clutching at his throat. She stepped away from the man and retracted her blade, her face expressionless as he reached for her, his eyes pleading. Somehow, he managed to gasp out, “Help … me …”

She said nothing and turned around just as he had collapsed. Again, he tried to speak, but all that came out was an unintelligible gurgle. “I said,” she told him icily as she began to walk away, “I can take care of myself.”

She departed the alley, leaving the man to choke on his own blood.

 

The Assassin bureau wasn’t so much a bureau as it was a hovel. Dreary and somber, it accurately reflected the state of France. It was located in the dead center of Paris, right under the Templars’ noses; surely if they were to look hard enough, there was a chance the Brotherhood would have been found out.

But they were too busy pulling the strings of the Revolution to suit their own ends to come looking— _for now, at least_ , Charlotte thought.

Restless, she sat at the old wooden desk, writing utensil in hand. The words came to her easily, the thought of bringing the Jacobin bastard who murdered her _Girondins_ 2 to justice. It was her duty—her _obligation_ _—_ to her country that she do so. She intended to make an example of him and carry out her assassination for all to see; doing so, she thought, would end the violence and prevent an even deadlier civil war. In her heart, she knew it _had_ to be her.

_There can_ _be no other_.

Hushed words came from outside. Turning off the oil lamp, the chair creaked as she rose, much to her irritation. Beneath the sleeves of her nightgown was her hidden blade; rarely had she ever taken it off since the day she received it back in Caen. She carefully glided out of the open window, and kept her steps light as she honed in on the source of the murmurs. Upon reaching the edge of the building, she perched on the rooftop and glanced down.

In the shadows was Arno Dorian and a female whom Charlotte recognized from a previous meet-up—because this was not the first time she had caught her fellow Assassin sneaking out in the middle of the night in order to chat with this mysterious woman. She was beginning to assume it was a tryst; she had not seen many whose hair was naturally so red, and Charlotte figured Arno must have found _something_ attractive about her, considering he was not the type to settle upon just one suitor.

The woman turned—and in the pale light of the moon, she saw it: a Templar cross.

Charlotte’s eyes widened and her stomach twisted in disgust. _Arno is cavorting with the enemy_ , she thought bitterly, turning away in revulsion. _And he dare calls himself an Assassin?!_ There was a profoundly sour taste in her mouth as she crept back to her room, shutting the window quietly behind her. She then headed to her bed and slipped under the blanket.

She would accost him about his affair in the morning.

 

Charlotte heard his deft landing and peered at him from underneath her hood. Though she was inconspicuous to the ordinary eye, Arno’s keen sight was far from typical.

“Ms. Corday,” he said, greeting her with a friendly smile.

She regarded him with a silent nod and continued to watch him from her place in the corner of the common room. His behavior did not betray his secret—if there really was any to be found. Part of her hoped it was all a big misunderstanding, but she was a realistic adult who considered naivety a trait best left behind in childhood.

Almost as if he truly possessed preternatural senses, he diverted his attention from his cutlass to his compatriot’s passive expression. “Is something bothering you?”

Gaze unbroken, she stood carefully, her forearm seconds from flexing. “Where were you last night?”

“Completing a contract,” he answered coolly, as if he hadn’t even committed the transgression to begin with. “Why are you so interested in my nightly activities?” He paused, before grinning. “If you wanted to join me, why did you not say so?”

No sooner than when she leaped at him, he was already on the defensive, his sword a makeshift shield against her hidden blade as they clashed. “Want to spar then, eh?”

Narrowing her eyes at him, she asked, “Who is she?”

“What are you—”

“Answer the damn question!”

Recognition flashed through his cat-like eyes. “So it was you, the one that has been spying on me.”

“The Brotherhood does not tolerate traitors,” she growled as she sprang back, her guard still up.

Briefly, he pursed his lips before lowering his cutlass in a bid of non-aggression. “Funny that, coming from you.”

She glowered at him. “I’m not the one attending secret meetings with Templars.”

“Is it any worse than vigilantism?”

“I’m not the traitor here!” she countered.

His expression hardened, and he took a deliberate step forward. “Your recklessness may one day put the Brotherhood at risk. The Creed says—”

“Shut up!” she snapped, backing away from him. “If they are a threat to the citizens, then they are a threat to our Order. Spill a little blood to prevent a river.”

“And who are you to dispense justice, deciding who lives and who dies?”

Her back gently collided with the wall. “We are Assassins, Arno. We dole out pain, hoping that one day it will end, but all we do is spread it further. What we do, it is irony in the purest sense.”

“At least without proper consideration, seeking out a target solely for personal revenge is foolish.” He sighed and pulled back his hood as he approached her. “I know what you plan on doing. _Addresse aux Français amis des lois et de la paix_ 3, you titled it?”

“You went through my things?!” she snarled.

“ _La perfection marche lentement, il lui faut la main du tems_ 4,” he quoted. “Have patience.”

“Do not patronize me; I know what I am doing.” Though she retracted her blade, she still looked at him with indignation.

The bureau fell into silence. The other Assassins were not present—and if they were, they had made nary a sound. Charlotte did not care either way, as the outcome of this confrontation wouldn’t have changed either way.

Though the tension eventually dissipated, she was still anxious; she needed to get away and clear her head. As she turned to leave, Arno’s pleasant timbre made her pause.

“Élise … She is special to me.”

“ _Nos vivere et mori solum_ ,” she said, her back still facing him. “We live and die alone.“

 

Charlotte ran through the streets, her brown hair flapping wildly in the wind behind her. The early morning air cooled her heated cheeks, but the stench of death and depravity made her stomach turn. Midway to her destination—which she’d only decided upon mere moments before—she had spied a barricade. Impatient, she scaled the nearby building and began to cross the rooftops.

“ _Amour sacré de la Patrie,_

_Conduis, soutiens nos bras vengeurs,_

_Liberté, liberté cherie,_

_Combats avec tes defénseurs;_

_Combats avec tes défenseurs._

_Sous drapeaux, que la victoire_

_Acoure à tes mâles accents;_

_Que tes ennemis expirants_

_Voient ton triomphe et notre gloire!_ 5”

Past the blockade, a group of people sang in fervent unison. She recognized the words, the vocalized beat a deadly marching anthem. Though she hadn’t looked down, she knew by the stamping of their feet that they were armed and ready for combat—if not with weapons, then with the passion they held in their hearts …

The passion to free their country from those who would smother Her in corruption.

She had made it to the tavern in due time. Pulling up her hood, she opened the door and went inside, her feet carrying her swiftly to the bar. She slipped between two other patrons and sat on the stool, her eyes nailed to the counter.

“What will you have, _mademoiselle_?”

“ _Eau de vie_ ,” she answered without hesitation.

“Have you heard?” the man to her left said, craning his body partway past her.

Her eyes flicked to him briefly, before the person whom he addressed swallowed the swig he’d taken from his tankard. “Heard what?” Then, upon obvious realization, his voice had lowered as he leaned to meet the gaze of his conversation partner. “You mean _him_ , do you not?”

“His condition,” the first man began, “it is worsening. Some say it will not be long before disease takes him.”

Charlotte fished a few _assignats_ from her pouch and handed them to the bartender once he returned with her drink. “ _Merci_.” She took to quietly sipping her drink as the men on either side of her continued to gossip.

“So he will no longer attend the National Convention?”

“It seems not,” the first man said. “He is confined to a tub, and he will not even make it to the Bastille Day parade.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“Indeed.” A pause, then the first man added, “He has many enemies; he is not in any state for an encounter, so his estate is heavily guarded.”

“Sounds like death is imminent, the poor bastard.”

Charlotte easily pieced the clues together; she had no doubt that who they spoke of was Jean-Paul Marat. It was not long ago she heard rumors that he’d contracted a skin condition whilst hiding from his enemies in the sewers—but she didn’t realize it had progressed so far. She had every intention of executing him in public; she decided this the day she came to Paris.

But now, she would have to improvise.

Taking one last drink of the wine, she rose and left the tavern, a sinister plan taking form in the back of her mind.

 

Charlotte retrieved her things from the bureau and departed for the room she had booked at _Hôtel de Providence_. When she originally left Caen, the only possessions she carried with her were her hidden blade and a copy of _Parallel Lives_ by Plutarch, one of her favorite books. She had only a decent sum of money, but worried not about whether or not she would be able to afford fancy expenditures; her only concern was getting in touch with the Brotherhood and to utilize their resources in order to put an end to Marat.

_The Paris branch had their uses_ , she thought as she entered the rented room, _but I need them no longer._

After placing her things upon the bed, she went straight to work. With her manifesto in hand, she sat at the desk and put to it the final touches. It had taken her only another hour to perfect the text, and stopped to gaze at her handiwork with pride. _Time to enact this plan and see to it that Marat does not live to witness_ _another dawn._

She stripped off her Assassin uniform and pulled on a simple dress—the same one she’d worn when she came to Paris. Other than her hidden blade, which was concealed by the frock’s sleeves, she was completely unarmed. It was all she needed, she decided. No elaborate weaponry, no allies—all that was necessary was herself and her blade.

This day, on _le quatorze juillet_ 6, she left for her target’s estate.

And it was there that she would make history.

 

She arrived at Marat’s home just before noon. A pair of armed guards stood outside the gate, their faces hardened into matching skeptical frowns. As she approached them, they moved to block her path.

“I seek an audience with _monsieur_ Marat,” she said bluntly. “I have information for him.”

One of the guards raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

Knowing they wouldn’t be convinced solely by a vague statement, she leaned close and whispered, “It is important. The Girondists—”

“Leave,” the second one ordered. “Our lord is in no condition to have guests.”

“But …!”

He scowled at her defiance. “ _Now_.”

She turned and began to walk away, her congenial disposition shattering. _Do not think I will give up so easily_ , she thought, extending her hidden blade before retracting it as quickly as it appeared. She passed Marat’s printing press and headed back to the hotel—but she would return as many times as it took.

His death would be at _her_ hands, and _hers_ alone.

 

She came back later that day, only to be turned away again. But the third time was the final attempt; this time, she came with a letter. On it, she had written that she was prepared to give him the names of the _Girodin_ enemies he sought. Of course, the names she had in mind were not those of the real Girondists; most had been wiped out during the September Massacres, and she had no intention of forsaking what was left of her allies.

One of the guards snatched the letter from her fingers, his eyes squinting at the text she had scrawled on the paper. “Stay right there,” he said, nodding to his companion whose gaze set upon her in careful observation as the first disappeared past the gate.

She gave the remaining guard a cordial smile, which betrayed the infernal thoughts that crossed her mind. Though it was her last chance to retreat, to leave before an inevitable spiraling of events would lead to her being hunted for an eternity, she decided that there was no running away. _I have come this far_ , she thought, seeing the front door of the manor swing open. _There is no turning back—not now_.

“ _Monsieur_ Marat will see you now,” the guard said, gesturing past the gate.

She nodded and entered, following the small cobblestone path to the entrance of the manor itself. What greeted her was a woman. She had brown hair and an oval face, and her demeanor exuded a certain warmness. Charlotte regarded her with a small smile, and paused, unsure of where to start searching for the bath in the spacious building.

The woman motioned for her to follow. “My husband is just over here. Allow me to take you there.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte began, “ _madam_ … uh …”

“Simone,” she corrected, leading her guest through the foyer and into a hall not far from the lounge.

They passed by servants, and it seemed they had a tendency to hover near the bathroom where their lord sought relief from his illness. And though night was beginning to fall, it wouldn’t make her assassination any easier; if any of the maids were to interrupt her … _I need to make this quick_ , she thought as Simone opened the door before them.

The room was unexpectedly small, but surprisingly furnished. A detailed map of France hung on the wall, the wallpaper underneath showing signs of age. Nearby, Marat sat in the tub, with the board in front of him being used as a provisional writing surface. His only shred of privacy came from a sheet of linen draped across the porcelain and wood.

He didn’t acknowledge her entry until Simone shut the door. He gestured for her to sit down—and she did so, her nose scrunching in both aversion and disgust. Marat was thin, his head wrapped in an unpleasant-smelling cloth, and he reeked of death. The only solace Charlotte received was from the soft breeze filtering through the partially opened window beside her.

“I was told you have names,” he finally said, preoccupied with whatever document he’d been writing up until now.

“I do,” she affirmed, pausing briefly to wipe at the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes due to the man’s horrible stench.

“Then what are you waiting for, _mademoiselle_?”

Biting back bile, Charlotte began listing names: Frédéric Paquet, Dieudonné Sauveterre, Célestine Lemaire, Claude Durand … All made-up, but convincing nonetheless. Once she divulged the final pretend Girondist, evening had officially descended upon Paris. He turned his head and looked at her for the first time; his eyes, bloodshot and dull, held the bitterness and hate of a dying man.

With a small, albeit smug smile, he declared, “With these names, you will have done a great service to your country. A true patriot you are, a hero! Soon, we shall have them _all_ guillotined!”

It was then she remembered why she came. She stood, her movements slow and precise as she came toward him. “With this single act of violence,” she began, extending her blade, “I shall bring peace to my nation.”

She stabbed him directly in the heart.

With blood gushing from his mouth, he cried, “ _Aidez-moi_!”

And that was all it had taken; Marat’s soul left his earthly vessel, and Charlotte looked on with satisfaction—even as Simone and two servants came rushing into the room. She let them pin her down until the guards arrived, and bothered not to fight back when they dragged her off to the _Conciergerie_.

She would allow herself to become a martyr.

 

Charlotte stood before the Revolutionary Tribunal, her arms bound behind her back. A man of dark hair by the name of Antoine Quentin Fouquier-Tinville was before her; he was the Tribunal’s public prosecutor, and was known to be a ruthless individual. Of course, they had chosen the most wicked of men to help arraign her.

Maximilien de Robespierre would have stood for nothing less.

Thin and high-strung, Charlotte’s lawyer was beside her as the charges against her were read to a court who surely despised her.

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

With her head held high, and a look of vindication on her face, she answered, “Nothing, except that I have succeeded.”

“What are you doing?!” her lawyer whispered, his brows furrowing. “You must be earnest; if you are not, the court will find you of sound mind and—”

She was calm, her eyes and head both cloudless and bright; the prosecutor would nary think twice about her sanity.

And Charlotte did not care; she _wanted_ them to know of her intention.

“Who convinced you to carry out this deed?” Antoine prodded.

“My heart needs no convincing.”

“Then had Marat wronged you?” he pressed.

“He would drown France in a sea of blood,” she replied. “I could not allow such a thing—a beast in human form—to destroy Her.”

Charlotte’s lawyer massaged his temples in frustration, his pleas unheard as she continued to testify—though the persecutor was unable to get her to reveal the names of the real Girondists. She was smarter than that, and would not fall for such juvenile and obvious trickery.

“Tell me then,” Antoine began, “whom would carrying out this act benefit?”

She approached the podium and stood before the entire court, her eyes making direct contact with each of them as she spoke. “I am Marie-Anne Charlotte de Corday d’Armont of Normandy,” she announced, “and I have killed one man to save 100,000!”

They started to hiss and jeer, their contempt for the woman before them as clear as the afternoon sun. Her lawyer began to escort her away when a rough hand grabbed her arm, making her pause. Peering past stray bangs, she saw Robespierre, a small smirk tugging at his mouth.

“ _Au revoir_ , Assassin,” he murmured.

She glared at him as she jerked from his grasp. “Templar,” she growled, before her lawyer guided her out of the courtroom where they would await the verdict.

Sentenced to death, she would live out her final days in a dank cell.

 

Charlotte quietly watched as her long hair fell to the floor.

The coiffeur’s assistant gathered the clumps of curls and deposited them into a basket, no doubt to be later used for wig making. He disappeared, while the scissors which trimmed her hair to the nape glinted in the sunlight as her escorts piled inside the room to bind her. She was silent as she was led back to the _Conciergerie_ , though she carried herself with pride despite the dirty peasant’s smock she wore.

She and at least a dozen others who had been condemned to death were loaded into the tumbrel to be taken to the _Place de la Concorde_. They wouldn’t be the first—or last—prisoners to make the trip; on some days, the tumbrel made more than three trips from the guillotine to the _Conciergerie_ and back.

As they neared their destination, the sky lit up. Lightning streaked the heavens, while thunder rocked the foundations of the city. Charlotte stared up at the darkening clouds, her conviction stronger than ever. She knew she had done the right thing in that she had saved France from a terrible monster.

She had not one regret.

Despite the rain that began to pour, the streets were congested with spectators. Because they wanted to see the one who had put an end to Marat so readily? Or because they were afraid—afraid that if they didn’t, they would be branded as traitors as well? The derogatory words thrown at her were a clear indicator, and the tumbrel’s open carriage did little to protect Charlotte from the stones hurled her way.

She remained calm even when one scratched her cheek.

Robespierre and others, presumably friends and fellow Templars, had made themselves comfy in the highest floor of a building nearby. _It seems my death is naught but entertainment for them_ , Charlotte thought as she was ushered from the tumbrel and into a line.

One by one, the prisoners were put to death. Some begged for their lives, while others silently resigned to their fate. Charlotte did not hang her head in shame or plead for mercy, nor did she hesitate to climb the scaffold. Even when her neck had been placed upon the lunette, she remained as placid as ever.

The last thing she saw was _his_ golden eyes before everything went black.

 

_MEMORY COMPLETE … EXITING SOFTWARE._

The girl pulled off her headgear and let out a long breath. She could still feel the slick, cold metal bearing down upon her neck; she rubbed the skin there and closed her eyes.

“How goes it?”

She opened an eye and glanced sideways, seeing one of her fellow employees at Abstergo Entertainment. He wasn’t much older, and had been recruited into the program not long before her. Sitting the headgear atop the desk, she answered, “Not good.”

He took a sip from his mug. “If I remember my history, you must’ve had a bad case of the ‘where in the hell is my head? I can’t remember where I put— _oh’_.”

The girl laughed. “Yeah. The French sure loved their guillotines, didn’t they?” She swiveled her chair around to meet his grin. “Any progress on your end?”

“Mr. Cormac was an interesting one, I’ll give him that,” he replied. “Which reminds me—I need to get back to work. Break’s almost over, and Jamie will have my ass.”

“I, on the other hand, am taking the rest of the day off.” The man feigned a pout at her statement, which made the girl chuckle again. “Jamie said once I finished Charlotte’s memories, I could go home.”

“Why do I get the feeling I’m in it for the long haul?”

“Shoo!” she said, motioning to his desk which was located just across the lab.

“I’m going, I’m going … geez.”

She couldn’t help but crack a smile. Once he was gone, she turned in the chair and reached beside the console to retrieve a small stack of documents. But it was then, out of the corner of her eye, that she saw it: The image, though gone in a flash, was vivid; it was a woman with striking eyes and long hair.

The girl shook her head, thinking she was starting to hallucinate; after all, spending too much time in the Animus wasn’t healthy, despite the claims Abstergo made otherwise about the new machines. She shoved the papers into her handbag, initiated the shut down sequence on the console, and left for her car.

Though the eerie image still haunted her thoughts.

 

The girl awoke with a startle.

She shot up from her couch which she had passed out on earlier that evening. Rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand, she willed herself to calm down, as her heart was hammering in her chest. The things she’d seen in her dreams, however, made it difficult to do so.

“I see that you are awake.”

She shrieked, seeing a seemingly translucent woman appear on her PC monitor. “It was you!” she said, pointing at the screen accusingly. “ _You_ were the one I saw on the Animus—and in my dreams!” The woman’s bizarre-looking golden eyes gazed at her; though they were of a similar shade to Arno’s, they were far from friendly. “Who are you?!”

The woman smiled. “My name is Juno,” she said, “and I have been waiting for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1 _L’Ami du peuple_ , roughly translated as “Friend of the People,” was a newspaper penned by Jean-Paul Marat.
> 
> 2 _Girondins_ , meaning the Girondists, was a political faction active in France from 1792–93. Charlotte was a huge sympathizer, and she blamed Marat for his role in their demise.
> 
> 3 _Addresse aux Français amis des lois et de la paix_ means “Address to the French people, friends of Law and Peace.” It was a manifesto explaining Charlotte’s motives for assassinating Marat.
> 
> 4 _La perfection marche lentement, il lui faut la main du tems_ is a quote by French writer Voltaire, which roughly translates as “Perfection is attained by slow degrees; she requires the hand of time.” Arno was said to be well-educated and often quoted the classics.
> 
> 5This is a section from the song _La Marseillaise_ , which was written by Claude Joseph Rouget de Lisle in 1792. It later became the country’s anthem in 1795.
> 
> The translation is roughly as follows:
> 
> “Sacred love of the fatherland  
> Guide and support our vengeful arms.  
> Liberty, beloved liberty,  
> Fight with your defenders;  
> Fight with your defenders.  
> Under our flags, so that victory  
> Will rush to your manly strains;  
> That your dying enemies  
> Should see your triumph and glory!”
> 
> 6 _Le quatorze juillet_ means “the fourteenth of July.” This refers to the French celebration, Bastille Day, which commemorates the Storming of the Bastille on July 14th, 1789.
> 
> * * *
> 
> If you like what you read, please leave some kudos and/or comment to let me know! Constructive criticism is always welcome, so don’t be afraid to say what’s on your mind.


End file.
